WEEK 65: Two coffees and a straw

The crazy author says: I crammed all 4 of Miss Sam’s suggestions into this bugger…

Two coffees and a straw

Fool me once

Scared shitless

We go way overboard

But he has nothing to worry about. Sunshine will be returned without a scratch on her. His motorized baby is in safe hands.

Besides the obvious offenses, Trace is a responsible, law-abiding citizen. Even though it’s the middle of the night and the streets are barren, he comes to a full stop at every red. I get nervous at the fourth intersection. Because when the light turns green…

We don’t move.

“Trace.”

He probably can’t hear me. Either that or he’s suffered a brain aneurysm.

I strum his abs through the thin, black t-shirt.

His fingers find mine immediately.

Raising the volume a few notches, I ask, “Are you okay?”

He guides me lower. His dick twitches in my palm.

Unbelievable. I give my typical man a squeeze and yell, “Go, you pervert!”

There’s an IHOP fifteen minutes away. It takes us under ten to pull into the parking lot. Guess I lied about him being a responsible, law-abiding citizen. I forgot my former thief also has zero respect for the speed limit.

I dismount and watch him do the same.

He removes my helmet and locks it to the seat. His movements are sluggish. He’s unsteady on his feet.

He squares his shoulders and slowly faces me. His jaw is tense. His gaze remains downcast.

I have no sympathy whatsoever. “Don’t you dare lie to me, asshole. I’ve been scared shitless for three days straight. I can’t eat. I’ve hardly slept. Every time I blink, I still see you dying. I still see your blood dripping onto the dashboard. I still fucking smell it.”

He gently cups the nape of my neck and draws me close.

I pound a fist against his chest. It’s all for show. I’d never fight him. “So, the least you could do is be honest.”

Exhaling a defeated sigh, he releases me and points to his temple.

“Headache?”

He gestures, holding his index and thumb less than a centimeter apart.

“Just a little?”

A hesitant smile appears on his lips. The gesture shrinks to half its size.

“Fine,” I’m not entirely convinced, “but we aren’t staying long.”

Next thing I know, we’re literally crashing through the door. Trace doesn’t acknowledge the shocked greeter. He snatches a pen from the front counter and makes a beeline for the furthest corner.

As I take a seat, he wedges in next to me and slides us hard into the wall. “I can’t breathe.” I’m not kidding.

He isn’t listening. He’s busy writing something on a napkin. When the waitress arrives a moment later, he waves it at her.

“Two coffees and a straw,” she reads, appearing slightly perplexed and mostly bored with life. “Anything else?”

Trace looks at me.

She looks at me.

The thought of food is far from appetizing. “No, thanks.”

“Mm-kay, hun. Coming right up.”

I wait until she’s out of earshot. “The hospital actually has pretty good coffee.” True story.

He flips the napkin over and scribbles, Too easy.

I roll my eyes.

We don’t do easy.

Valid point. “We go way overboard sometimes.”

He shrugs.

“Can you even drink through a straw?”

He pouts. He legitimately pouts before clicking the pen and chucking it clear across the restaurant. That totally counts as a hissy fit in my book.

Glancing at the napkin, I burst into a fit of laughter.

He’s drawn wavy lines streaming down both sides of a gigantic sad face.